by Lee Murray
Chapter 2
Maungapōhatu, Te Urewera Forest, late March
Rawiri Temera sat on a fold-out beach chair on the back porch of the farmhouse smoking a cigarette and listening to the familiar chatter of the morepork and weka. Some nights, from this spot, Temera could see the needle of Te Maunga thrusting its twisted silhouette against the darkened sky, the final spike of the Huia-rau mountain range in the Urewera forest. Tonight though, the mist maiden Hine-pūkohu-rangi had wrapped the mountain in her grey cloak, her earthy perfume overwhelmed by the scent of Temera’s tobacco.
How many more nights would he spend on this porch? Not many – his great-nephew Wayne reckoned – if Temera insisted on smoking. He ignored his nephew’s counsel; a man was entitled to one vice. At eighty-three, there was little enough pleasure in life. Even the journey in and out of the valley was misery these days, the ride in the truck jolting his bones and rattling his teeth. Perhaps, after all, this would be his last summer visit to kāinga tipu, his isolated ancestral home.
Flicking ash into the yard, Temera exhaled, lips pursed like a clarinet player as he stretched out his legs. From far away came what sounded like an engine, but he wasn’t expecting anyone. Maungapōhatu was too far off the beaten track for visitors to pop in for tea and ginger-nuts. It was hardly a tourist destination, just a handful of hardy farmers, mostly rugged Tūhoe men, and fewer women. The lost and the lonesome. The year before last, the Search and Rescue helicopter had hovered around the settlement for close to an hour searching for some fool hunter who’d got himself separated from his party while chasing down an injured stag. It was the biggest fuss they’d seen in these parts since old war chief Murakareke rolled over in his sleep and singed his family jewels in a fire. Squashing his cigarette out in an old scallop shell, Temera leaned back in his beach chair and closed his eyes…
The morepork called; the owl’s hoot far off and melancholy. Out of the darkened mass of the forest, a shape emerged, slowly growing, as if the mountain had broken off and plunged into the valley. The shifting form advanced until it was just metres from the house, its shadow stretching across the yard.
A taniwha, a monster of legend.
Temera knew that for the taniwha to appear he had to be dreaming. He’d never seen a taniwha before, but he’d heard enough to recognise one when he saw one, darkness or no. Here in Kupe’s adopted home, every child knew of the taniwha – vengeful monsters that slaughtered warriors, kidnapped maidens and ate babies whole. Gruesome tales told and retold to children at the knees of their grandmothers. But taniwha could be protective as well as predatory, standing guard over rivers and mountains, and keeping the people of a tribe from harm. Warning them of coming danger.
And this taniwha? Was it friend or foe?
At last, Temera remembered what he should do. Quietly letting out his breath, he uttered soft, respectful words – a karakia-prayer in honour of his visitor.
Chapter 3
Landsafe Laboratories, Hamilton, early June
At the whump of the doors, Jules pushed back from her computer and looked down the length of the lab. It was Richard, her boss, the heavy double doors swinging closed behind him as he made his way towards her, a disposable coffee cup in each hand. Mousy-brown hair flopping over his face, he smiled. With his rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the polished linoleum, Richard hardly resembled the CEO of Crown Research Institute. He was more your salesman type, or a council contractor, or even a comedian, although the only stand-up he did was at scientific symposia – about four annually. He was a seriously good scientist with a PhD from Canterbury, post-doctoral stints at Texas and Cambridge universities, membership on some prestigious scientific committees, as well as ecological field-work experience on three continents.
And he was in love with her.
Not that Jules had done anything to encourage it – well, nothing more than your usual office banter. She just didn’t feel that way about Richard. Although, if she was honest, she could do a lot worse. Richard was a good friend, but those Jake Gyllenhaal movies Hollywood kept churning out had her holding out for something more. Something special.
Richard passed her a coffee. “Milk, no sugar, right?”
Accepting the cup, Jules gave him what she hoped was a professional smile. She took a sip; the contents were still hot. Richard must have run all the way from the canteen.
“Okay, what’s up?” she demanded, one hand on her hip.
Richard combed his fringe out of his face with his fingers. “Up? Why should something be up?”
Jules raised her coffee cup, and her eyebrows.
“It’s not against the law to bring a staff member coffee, Dr Asher.”
Jules drummed her fingers on the bench. “Did you get Mal one?”
“Hey, I’ve only got two hands,” Richard protested.
Over the rim of her cup, Jules gave him a penetrating stare, and took another sip.
Rolling chair castors thrummed on the linoleum, and Richard sat down beside her, coffee in his hands and his elbows resting on the worn knees of his cords. “Okay, I’ll come clean. I’ve just got off the phone with the Conservation Minister.”
“The minister.” Jules leaned back. “Should I be terrified or intrigued?”
“Don’t panic. As far as I can tell there are no plans to sell off Landsafe.” He threw her a wry smile. “At least, not this week. No, it’s that gold uncovered in Te Urewera National Park. Did you see the news report?”
“The pair of Aussie geologists here on holiday?” Jules said.
Richard nodded.
“I read it online. Didn’t that seem weird to you, them finding that nugget smack in the middle of the trail?”
Richard shifted his weight and rolled a little closer. “Actually, that’s not so weird. The Aussies were crossing a riverbed when they found the nugget. Plenty of gold turns up in riverbeds. What’s weird is that they handed it over to the authorities.”
“It wasn’t theirs to take,” Jules said with a shrug. “Did you know that if you uncover a vein of silver in your vege patch, it belongs to the Crown? I expect the government can swoop in and confiscate your carrots, too.”
“Yeah, but that nugget was the size of an iPhone: 1600 grams and close to pure. Fifty-four troy ounces, the minister said. At today’s spot price, that’s close to 100,000 US dollars. Imagine what you could do with that kind of money.”
“For one nugget? Wow. I don’t suppose the minister was calling to offer us a share.”
Richard pulled a face. “I wish! He wants to know if there’s more where this came from.”
Biting at the edge of the paper cup, Jules waited for Richard to continue.
“So the ministers have overridden the Schedule 4 protection on the parkland. Granted a special prospecting licence. They’re proposing sending in a Task Force to investigate the potential quantity of ore, and how it might be extracted. We’ve been charged with evaluating the impact to the environment.”
Jules’ pulse quickened. Of course Landsafe would be involved. Any eventual extraction would have to comply with the Conservation Act.
“I’m surprised at the Tūhoe though,” Richard said, flicking away the hair that always fell forward over his face. “As co-guardians, I thought they’d have something to say about a bunch of strangers traipsing through their tribal lands, poking holes. But the tribe’s elders have given it the go-ahead.”
Jules wrapped her fingers around her cup. “I guess they’re thinking of the economics of it.” She managed to keep her tone even.
“Probably,” Richard agreed. “There isn’t much work up that way. But like you said, the government doesn’t have to ask the landowner’s permission.”
Here it comes.
Jules held her breath.
“This Task Force. I want you to go, Jules.”
Her heart sank. “Aw come on, Richard,” she said, hating the whine in her voice. “I’m up to my eyeballs in this project.” She waved at her computer screen. “What about
Mal? Can’t he go?”
“No, he can’t, Jules. His wife is due next week and there’s no way I’m getting on the wrong side of Gabby – she scares the hell out of me.” He pulled an awkward grin.
“I can be scary,” Jules whispered.
Richard laughed.
Jules dropped her chin, looking out at Richard from under her lashes. “What if I promise to wash all the laboratory glassware for a week? Every last Erlenmeyer flask.”
Leaning in, Richard placed a hand on her shoulder. “Jules, I’ve done my best to keep you out of the parks, but it’s been two years.”
“I can’t go. Sarah needs me to look in on her.”
“It’s only for a few days. And Sarah has other people who can visit her.”
“Yes, but I’m her best friend.”
“She’ll understand.”
“What if she doesn’t?”
“Jules…”
“Richard, I can’t. It’s too soon.”
Richard’s face was impassive. “Jules… there is no one else.”
Dropping the crumpled coffee cup into the bin, Jules scrubbed her hands over her face, holding back her tears. It was bound to happen. She was going to have to face it sometime. Richard couldn’t protect her forever.
She dropped her forearms onto the bench. “When is it?”
“You leave tomorrow. From Rotorua.”
“Tomorrow! You said it was only a proposal.”
“That’s the official line.”
“But it’s the Ureweras. It’ll be freezing.”
Richard brushed his fringe out of his eyes again. “I agree, it could be bracing,” he said, throwing his coffee cup in the bin.
* * *
Dinsdale, Hamilton City, same day
Jules stepped through the back door into the kitchen. At the laminate counter, a woman in her fifties stepped back from a pile of chopped vegetables, her voluminous bosom wobbling.
“Hello, Dr Asher.”
Jules raised an eyebrow, tilting her head.
“I mean, Jules.”
Jules gave her a warm smile. “Hello, Carol-Ann. How was she today?”
The caregiver wiped her hands on a chequered tea-towel. “Not bad, overall. We had a lovely lunch. Drove the van through to Rotorua to the Blue Lake, and had a picnic on the beach.”
“Bit cold for that, wasn’t it?” Jules slipped her handbag into the space between the chair back and the table.
“We wrapped up warm. Sarah likes it there, near the water and the bush.” Carol-Ann lowered her voice to a whisper. “She’s a bit melancholy tonight, though.”
“Her parents?”
Carol-Ann nodded. “They left half an hour ago. Upset her, as usual. You go through, honey. She’ll be pleased to see you. Give me a tick to get the dinner on and I’ll bring you through a cuppa.”
Jules headed to the lounge, the sound of the television greeting her.
’...Archie. Chris Tarrant on the line. I’ve got Phil here with me in the studio. He’s doing very well, but he needs your help to win £16,000...’
On the battered leather sofa, a spot of spittle on her chin, Sarah’s face was a picture of concentration. Jules’ heart clenched, reminded of another evening her friend had sat on this same battered sofa. Back then Sarah had been wearing cut-off Levis, her long legs tucked under her, eating Indian takeout from a foil container, and nattering between mouthfuls about the pair of them partnering up for karaoke night.
“Hey, sweetie.” Jules dropped a kiss on Sarah’s forehead. Her friend looked up, blue eyes full of warmth. When rescue teams had pulled her out of the gully still alive, Jules had been overwhelmed with relief. Always a battler, Sarah had spent seven months in Burwood Hospital recovering from severe trauma to her frontal lobe.
“Do you mind if I turn this off?” Jules said, pointing to the television.
Sarah looked puzzled, so Jules picked up the remote and switched the television off. Poor Sarah. It wasn’t just the partial paralysis of her legs. Where before she used to run marathons and play weekend touch rugby, these days Sarah struggled to process simple everyday things: socks before shoes; putting water in the jug first. Occasionally, she got aggressive, supposedly a result of the trauma, but anyone would be frustrated, humiliated and pissed off as all hell, if they couldn’t manage to brush their own teeth.
Sometimes Jules woke in a cold sweat, reliving the accident. She could’ve been the one leading the team through the bush that day. It could just have easily been her at the bottom of that canyon; her struggling with the answers on a stupid game show.
“Carol-Ann said the two of you went up to the Blue Lake?” Jules said, cheerily.
“Hes.” Jules tried not to wince at the monosyllabic answer, the result of Broca’s Aphasia—the prison her friend was locked in.
“It’s good to see you getting out and about. I’m going to be away a few days myself. Heading into the Ureweras.”
Sarah didn’t reply.
“I couldn’t get out of it this time, Sarah,” Jules said quietly. “I can’t let Richard down ‒ he’s supported me often enough.”
“Charrd.”
“Hey, don’t you start,” Jules laughed. “You’re worse than my parents. Richard’s a friend, that’s all!” Ignoring Sarah’s frown, Jules went on. “Anyway, it’s a mining exploration team and on conservation land, so it’s all a bit cloak and dagger. I’ll be working on the compliance issues. Looking out for the welfare of our native species.”
Sarah’s face twisted. She held up a hand and wiggled her fingers.
“How many are going?” Jules said, guessing the question from her friend’s gesture. “I don’t know. I’ll be meeting the others tomorrow. What are the odds there’ll be a gorgeous hunk amongst them?” she joked.
But, finding the remote, Sarah stabbed at the buttons and turned the television on, Chris Tarrant’s voice booming, ‘D-none of the above. Is that your final answer?’
* * *
Rotorua township
Temera woke and sat upright in bed.
That was one hell of a nightmare! Scared the bejeezus out of him. Again. Lately, he’d been dreaming every night. Haunting dreams. He lay down again and pulled the blankets up around his neck, but there wasn’t much chance of getting back to sleep now. He checked his alarm clock: 4:18am. Sighed. May as well get up, make a cuppa, watch some TV. He had to go to the toilet anyway. Throwing off his covers, Temera swung his legs out of bed.
* * *
Offices of Geotech International, Sydney, Australia
Caren Murphy studied the report: graphs, tables, fault and shear zone information from the geophysical survey. The results didn’t include any aerial data – dodgy atmospheric conditions in the area didn’t allow for it, and anyway her two Aussie geologist ‘tourists’ had been on the ground. It didn’t do to alert a country’s government when you were prospecting for green field sites. Far better to gather the information quietly. She smoothed a mesh of blonde hair back into her bob. At least the results looked promising. Worth the initial investment. With the economic crisis and recent bad press affecting Geotech’s share price, a big contract would be timely. Perhaps she could hurry things up even more?
Maybe a call…
Chapter 4
New Zealand Defence Force Army Base, Waiouru
James Arnold stared out the dusty window of the borrowed office, contemplating the army’s training base – a vast tussocked wasteland. There it was again, a flash of reflected sunlight in the distance. A scope? More likely some fool in civvie sunglasses. James grunted. He’d have to follow up the incident with the training officer. Not so long ago, under the blazing mid-day sun of Afghanistan, a gaff like that could earn a soldier and his unit an all-expenses paid trip home in body bags.
A soldier and his unit. In body bags…
A rap at the door startled him briefly.
Private Karen Dawson and her perfect rump. James believed the modern term was ‘bootylicious’. He turned away
from the window as the private entered.
“Sergeant McKenna has arrived from One Battalion in Linton, Major,” Dawson announced in a voice like melted chocolate. If James were inclined... Even then he’d be duty-bound to maintain a professional distance. In his sixties, James knew he wasn’t without charm: the khaki uniform with its rainbow of service medals, the touch of silver at his temples, even the lines etched on his forehead gave him a Sean Connery look that certain women found appealing. He rarely indulged himself. Losing Brenda to breast cancer sixteen years ago hadn’t meant he’d lost his appetite for female company, but one didn’t rise up the ranks without learning to be circumspect.
He smiled. “Please show the sergeant in.”
“Of course, sir,” Dawson said. She headed for the door, allowing James a shufti at her magnificent rear.
“Go through, Sergeant McKenna,” she said, turning sideways and offering the junior officer her prettiest smile as he stepped into the office.
James could hardly blame her. At thirty-four, Taine McKenna was closer to her age, and with steely blue eyes from his father’s side and skin liked polished rimu – a legacy from his Māori mother – he was a handsome mongrel. What’s more, the boy had all the power and dexterity of an All Black midfielder, and abdominals to match. James couldn’t even remember the last time he saw his own abs. Today though, McKenna’s musculature was hidden under regulation combat fatigues.
He came to attention before the burnished kauri desk. “Major Arnold.”
James waved away the younger man’s verbal salute as Dawson closed the door. “At ease, McKenna. Take a seat.”
“Boss,” McKenna said, using the SAS diminutive for his commanding officer. He folded his two-metre body into a chair with surprising grace.